Pastime

Nothing lasts, 

Not even those oxymoronic 

 

Images which persist for what 

Seems forever instant. 

 

 

 

A Poem Should Be (25)

Fantastically never-never humdrum 

Boys and girls, and always 

 

Nurturing and delicious, say 

A lot like Mom and apple pie, 

 

With plenty a whiff 

Of Tinkerbell’s stuff, 

 

And just like that, 

The hard-to-swallow 

 

Thought we’ll be only 

Dust one day flies by! 

 

 

 

End Of The Affair

Aye,

You said 

You’d always be 

 

My friend and I 

Believed you, I 

 

Who found it 

Hard to trust 

 

Anybody, even those 

Foolhardy few 

 

Who loved me to no end.

 

Aspiring Medium

The words 

 

Will not come to you 

If you are not ready, 

 

They may not come 

To you even if you are; 

 

You see, the words are complete 

In themselves and do not need 

 

Your presence or lack of it 

To show themselves as they truly are— 

 

Figments of an imagination merely 

Wishing upon a falling star.

 

 

 

 

 

Synaesthesia: Out Of The Frying Pan Into The Fires Of Hell

For crying out loud 

Mensch, looks like you 

 

Can’t make out the rank 

Smell of that 

 

Black plume of smoke curling in 

To your one ear as it whispers

 

Christ Almighty, You never hear 

A word I’m saying, nonchalantly

 

To the other being 

Deftly snuffed out. 

 

 

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/synesthesia  https://www.pbs.org/newshour/show/vatican-documents-show-secret-back-channel-between-pope-pius-xii-and-adolph-hitler  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pope_Pius_XII_and_the_Holocaust

 

Whopper, As In Trump

You say you’re selling what? Dude, 

Us cats here don’t need no fresh bait 

 

To get hooked, we can smell 

Something fishy a mile away.

 

And you know what?  

You got all it takes. 

 

 

 

https://www.commondreams.org/news/2022/10/13/about-damn-time-jan-6-panel-unanimously-votes-subpoena-ex-president-donald-trump?utm_source=daily_newsletter&utm_medium=Email&utm_campaign=daily_newsletter

 

 

 

 

Great Wavering Expectations

Poor, ambivalent souls, 

When the first torrential 

 

Waves of doubt start raining 

Down round you, will you be 

 

Running for cover before 

They hit parched earth, 

 

Or will you simply stand 

Your ground under them, 

 

Wide-eyed and open-mouthed,

Crying as if you were

 

A newborn baby.

 

 

 

Twilight: No Time To Waste

“It is thanks to my evening reading alone

 that I am still more or less sane.” 

 --W.G. Sebald, Vertigo 

 

If this is still indeed 

The case, as it certainly looks 

To be, we must all make haste 

And have our heads examined— 

Preferably more—instead of less. 

 

 

 

Poem Written To Condemn Random Acts Of Poetry Day, October 6th

There should be nothing 

Random (or senseless either), 

About writing poetry— 

 

One should come to it forcefully 

Purposefully, with all their senses 

Intact and if possible,

 

With a hell-bent-for-leather 

Take it or leave it 

Chip-on-the-shoulder attitude,

 

Double daring any wimp who differs 

To just try and knock it off--

Have I made myself clear, dearies?

 

 

 

 

 

At All Costs, Three's A Maddening Crowd

Don't you see?

 

Poets who wager they’re solid 

Solitary figures commuting 

With their souls should take 

A serious look at themselves 

And board the first tram to Bedlam;

 

I did and it worked wonders— 

Now all I have to do is convince you, 

Myself and I--or should that I be me--?

To invest in a return ticket,

But only should all of us agree.